


burn this flame

by rainbowninja167



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (this is my new favorite headcanon), A lot of silly fluff, Also blow jobs, Awkward Flirting, Charity Football AU, Famous Zayn, Football Player Liam, Football Player Louis, Harry is Doing His Best, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Overprotective Louis, Popstar Harry, REALLY light but it seems good to tag anyway i guess, Sketch Comedian Niall, like the most awkward - the other boys just want it to stop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:04:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8027167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowninja167/pseuds/rainbowninja167
Summary: “You’ve played keeper before?” Tomlinson asks suspiciously, hands on his waist.

  “Er, yeah,” Harry coughs. “Loads of times.”

  “Alright Popstar, if you’re sure,” Tomlinson tells him with a shrug, his professional expression already curling into laughter. Harry tries not to read too much into it. After all, how hard can goalkeeping really be?
When Harry gets invited to play in a celebrity charity match with Louis Tomlinson, Manchester United's star player, he's determined to impress him with brilliant football skills. The only flaw in Harry's otherwise foolproof plan? He has absolutely no football skills, brilliant or otherwise.





	burn this flame

**Author's Note:**

> The road traveled by this fic has been long and winding. It started as an idea for the H/L Spring Exchange. Hopefully it's not bad form to steal back your own idea (my author wrote another, much more brilliant fic with a different prompt!), but after Soccer Aid, I couldn't get it out of my head. So naturally I waited three more months before finishing it. As you do.
> 
> Anyway, it's a little silly and self-indulgent, and you probably shouldn't look too closely at the details (like: why is Louis running this charity while also captaining one of the teams, and also seems to basically be coaching it at the same time? WHO KNOWS). But I had fun writing it, and I hope it's fun to read!
> 
> Thank you to [Jo and Bert](http://iampackratseemehoard.tumblr.com) for beta-ing and being generally awesome.
> 
> The title is from Walk the Moon's "Work this Body."

“...and I’ve been after Schneiderlin, but he won’t confirm either way, the stubborn bastard.” Louis settles his laptop more securely against his knees to stabilize the Skype window. Not that Niall deserves the courtesy, as his own iPad seems to be perched on a stack of dirty dishes while Niall turns his back to the camera to rifle around his kitchen for some ice cream. Louis narrows his eyes at the carton of Rocky Road that Niall finally extracts from his freezer.

“You’re eating that deliberately to torment me, aren’t you,” Louis groans.

“Not my fault Mourinho started you lot on a stricter diet,” Niall mumbles around a huge bite of ice cream. He swirls his tongue around the spoon, moaning obscenely all the while.

Louis rolls his eyes. How is it -- Louis wonders darkly -- that he can play on one of the best football teams in the world, and yet still be stuck here in his flat on a Saturday night, watching a tiny, pixelated Niall Horan give a blowie to a kitchen utensil? Something just seems cosmically unfair about the whole scenario.

It’s surprising enough that they know each other, let alone share such culinary intimacies. Louis’ training schedule with Manchester United keeps him firmly in England for most of the year, while Niall films a sketch comedy show in L.A. and only rarely returns home. It had been pure chance that they’d met at James Corden’s birthday party last year, when Louis had been reeling from the aftereffects of coming out on Sky Sports earlier that month. The interview had given him a predictable but still mildly unwelcome boost in fame, and while Louis has long made peace with his insatiable flair for the dramatic, such an intense level of media attention had left him with an itch to focus on someone _else_ for a change.

He had (slightly drunkenly) explained all this to Niall, who had (equally drunkenly) pledged his support for the as-yet-undefined scheme. By the time Louis’ hangover had subsided, Niall had already confirmed a date for a joint footballer/celebrity charity match, locked in five celebrity players, and started planning the catering. Niall may look easygoing, but Louis is learning that he has depths. Hidden, _terrifying_ depths.

“Oh, by the way, I’ve confirmed with Harry Styles’ manager, and he’s definitely in,” Niall says in a breezy tone, with his ice cream spoon half-falling out of his mouth, like he hasn’t just dropped a fucking bombshell into Louis’ trusting, unprotected lap.

“What!” Louis splutters. “Since when did we invite _Harry bloody Styles_!?”

Harry Styles had been on _X Factor_ a year or two after Louis advanced to Manchester United’s first team. Louis has a very vivid (and somewhat shameful) memory of going out with his teammates when the show was airing, but slipping off to the loo to surreptitiously vote for the curly-haired lad with the skinny scarves and the absurdly earnest voice.

So yes, Louis might be a fan. And yes, he might have dragged Lottie and Fizzy to all three shows the last time Harry Styles had played the O2. And watched with rapt attention as Harry had leapt across the stage, graceful and magnetic, with a voice like liquid sin. And preordered Harry’s next album the moment it went on sale.

It’s not that he’s _obsessed_ or anything, whatever Lottie may say. It’s just that, if Louis had thought Harry Styles was adorable in his _X Factor_ days, it’s nothing compared to 22-year-old Harry, who has grown into both his curls and his fame, and who can send an arena of fans into paroxysms of sexual euphoria with nothing but a microphone stand and a heart of gold.

“Didn’t tell I you about Harry?” Niall asks in that same deceptively innocent tone, and then he hums around his spoon.

“ _No_ , you didn’t fucking tell me!” Louis wheezes back. “How d’you expect me to captain a football team if you change up the roster on a whim!”

_Especially if those changes involve boys with dimples and tattoos and legs for days._

Louis is jolted out of his acute panic-spiral by the memory of his and Niall’s last Skype date. It had involved both of them getting spectacularly drunk off tequila, Louis sloppily singing Harry Styles’ latest single from memory, and then treating Niall to an earnest monologue on how “he just seems like such a good _person_.” Niall had never brought it up again, and Louis’d assumed with relief that Niall had been too drunk to remember. Now he realizes that Niall was simply biding his time.

He squints suspiciously at Niall, who merely says “I’m sure you’ll manage” in a serene voice before giving his ice cream spoon a particularly smug lick.

***

When Niall calls Harry up to invite him to play in a charity match with Louis Tomlinson, Harry _totally_ keeps his cool. He manages to wait until _after_ he hangs up with Niall to smile so hard he forgets to breathe, giggle anxiously for thirty minutes straight, and then cry -- all in rapid succession. But, on the phone call itself, he’s basically chill personified.

“Tomlinson? He’s, like...some football player, right?” Harry asks smoothly.

_Nailed it._

There’s a brief pause over the phone, and what sounds like several muffled snorts of laughter, and then: “Haz, I’ve known you for years. I’ve been to your house. Both of them, actually.”

Harry blinks around at his L.A. living room. And, like, _okay_ , maybe he has _one or two_ Manchester United souvenirs lying around. And _maybe_ he has Tomlinson’s #28 jersey framed and hanging over his bed in London. But it’s not like he’s _obsessed_ or anything.

“Oh, you mean _Louis_ Tomlinson,” Harry tries weakly, and has to suffer through Niall’s bursts of incredulous laughter.

Harry has loved football since he was old enough to watch the matches, and he’s been a United fan for just as long. It’s true that his interest in the club got a lot more...intense when Louis Tomlinson joined the first team as a 17-year-old wunderkind. Tomlinson’s appearance had happened to coincide neatly with 15-year-old Harry’s discovery that he liked kissing boys at parties far more than girls, and suddenly Harry's bedroom walls were plastered with United posters and he was begging his mum to take him to Old Trafford for a match.

If Tomlinson had _only_ been a brilliant footballer, or _only_ stupidly pretty, Harry might’ve eventually grown out of his teenage infatuation. But -- as Harry had informed Gemma during a particularly fraught discussion concerning souvenir travel mugs that were _not_ for borrowing -- Louis Tomlinson isn’t the kind of crush you just _get over_. He’s the kind of crush whose matches Harry forces his PA to schedule events around. Whose post-game interview footage he DVRs and then re-watches obsessively at 2am, while drinking a bottle of wine and muttering passive-aggressive things about the opposing team. Who prompted Harry to make a secret Tumblr just for gifs of his arse. Who came out on television, fearless and cheeky, only a slight tension around the eyes to reveal that it wasn’t all as easy as he let on.

The kind of crush that Harry will soon be meeting in person. _Oh god._

“Harry, wait.” Harry realizes with a start that he’s still on the phone with Niall, who’s apparently recovered from his laughing fit. “You _can_ actually play football, can’t you?”

“Yeah, of course, I’m brilliant at football,” Harry blurts out in a panic, and promptly hangs up the phone.

***

“Niall was wrong, I can’t do this,” Louis groans, burying his face against Liam’s shoulder. It’s their first day of practice with the assembled celebrity and footballer charity team -- a practice that Louis is meant to be _leading_ , by the way -- and Louis has already been thoroughly defeated by the presence of Harry Styles on his pitch.

While most of the other players are sitting on the bench, drinking water and introducing themselves to each other, Harry is off by himself, his trademark curls pulled up into a messy bun, as he practices drills with a look of intense concentration on his face.

Thankfully, Liam, best of men and best of teammates, is willing to hide with Louis in the shadows until he can compose himself.

“Why are his shorts so _short_ though, Liam,” Louis whispers hoarsely, winding his fingers into Liam’s jersey for comfort.

“They’re just normal shorts, Lou,” Liam shrugs, and gently tries to detach Louis from his torso. Louis clings harder.

“Nothing _normal_ about it, _God_ ,” Louis groans. He watches as Harry momentarily loses control of the football and stretches out to catch it again, his pale, soft-looking thighs going taut with the effort, and his cute little bum straining against his shorts. Louis makes an embarrassingly high-pitched noise, and burrows more intently into the fabric of Liam’s jersey. He’s trying to not to imagine how Harry Styles’ thighs would look spread apart on the grass of this very pitch, with Louis kneeling between them, but the effort is mostly unsuccessful.

“Liam, why did you never tell me that football shorts are so _obscenely_ revealing?” Louis levels an accusing glare up at his traitorous best friend. Who merely snorts out a laugh and pats him condescendingly on the top of his head.

“Louis, _please_ tell me that you, a gay footballer, had that one sorted without my help. Also, stop having dirty fantasies about Harry Styles while you’re cuddling me. It makes me feel cheap.” Liam tries to ease himself away again, but Louis just bites at his neck in retaliation until Liam sighs and succumbs to Louis’ manhandling.

“This is all very traumatic for me. I need the comfort,” Louis insists, and sticks his face into Liam’s armpit. He watches from around Liam’s bicep as Harry starts dribbling the football in a zig-zag pattern while frowning adorably down at his own feet. Louis is experienced enough to tell that Harry’s about to trip himself up, but he’s definitely not expecting the way Harry’s legs suddenly shoot in opposite directions. Nor is he expecting the small yelp of dismay that carries halfway across the pitch to where Louis and Liam are standing. Nor the furtive, hopeful glance that Harry aims at the other players to check that he got away with it.

“Aw, he’s cute,” Liam coos. “You could be in serious trouble with this one.”

Louis honestly might cry.

***

When Harry arrives at the pitch for their first day of team practice, he reminds himself sternly that he is a _professional_ and an  _artist_. And that he can absolutely keep it together in front of Louis Tomlinson. Harry’s actually feeling very confident about the whole thing, right up until he actually sees him.

Tomlinson strides onto the pitch with a fluid self-confidence that has everyone turning deferentially toward him like sunflowers seeking the sun. Harry is used to seeing him in his scarlet football kit, and he’d never thought Louis Tomlinson could look better in anything else. Now he realizes there’s a _world of possibilities_ opened up by casual sportswear: from the trackies that cling to his bum and his thighs -- both given mouthwatering definition by years of football training -- to the black warmup jacket that hugs his small frame, accentuating his golden skin and curvy waist, to the hints of rumpled brown hair that peek out from under a slouchy gray beanie.

He looks like a sporty sex god. Like he could play a casual kickabout with Apollo and Thor before laying you down on a bed of Adidas merchandise and utterly _destroying_ you.

“Alright you lot,” Tomlinson calls out, his high, clear voice carrying across the whole pitch, commanding the space as easily as if it were his bedroom. Harry gulps.

“The next few days are for assessing your strengths. We’ll mostly be running practice games, just to see how we all work together. We don’t have much time, so we may need to get a bit creative with deciding our starting lineup. Oh, and we don’t have a professional goalkeeper on our side, so if any of the celebrity players fancies a turn in goal...”

Harry glances around at the other players. Nobody else seems particularly interested: Jon Stewart is shaking his head, Olly Murs is becoming as small as possible in the hopes that Louis won’t pick him, and Zayn Malik -- another singer that Harry vaguely knows from Hollywood parties -- is too busy making silly faces at Niall to pay any attention. Harry realizes with a jolt that if he wants to make a good first impression on Louis Tomlinson, this might be the perfect opportunity.

“I’ll do it,” he calls out, a bit surprised that his voice comes out normally, rather than awkward and squeaky. Tomlinson gives him a measured look, but there’s a slight quirk to his lips that suggests some private joke of his own. He doesn’t share it, just says “Perfect!” and gives Harry a crinkle-eyed grin. Harry goes a bit breathless at that, and the next thing he knows, Tomlinson is tossing a pair of gloves at his face that Harry has to scramble to catch. He stares at the gloves helplessly, and then back up at Tomlinson, whose eyes narrow.

“You’ve played keeper before?” Tomlinson asks suspiciously, hands on his waist. There’s that teasing glimmer again.

“Er, yeah,” Harry coughs. “Loads of times.”

“Alright Popstar, if you’re sure,” Tomlinson tells him with a shrug, his professional expression already curling into laughter. Harry tries not to read too much into it.

After all, how hard can goalkeeping really be?

***

After thirty minutes of being pummeled by footballs, tripping over his feet, flinging himself at the ground, getting tangled up in his own gloves, and allowing six goals in total, Harry is limping but still determined. He can _feel_ Tomlinson’s sarcastic scrutiny on him, always managing to catch Harry at his most embarrassing or uncoordinated. It certainly doesn’t help that five of those six goals came from him. But Harry is stubbornly resolved to stick to his original plan.

In his mind, he can see it so clearly: Tomlinson making one of his brilliant, signature shots, and Harry leaping through the air to block it (also brilliantly, of course). Tomlinson will be so overcome with admiration, he’ll snog Harry right there on the pitch.

“You’re perfect for me, Harry Styles” he will whisper in that maddeningly raspy voice of his, before dragging Harry off to have athletic sex in the team showers.

At least that’s how it _should_ go, if the universe were benevolent.

What actually happens is that as Harry stands in goal, daydreaming about water streaming down Louis Tomlinson’s bare chest, a football hits him directly in the stomach, and he topples to the ground with a shocked “oof!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I can’t stand it anymore, this is like punching a baby!” Tomlinson giggles as he jogs over to the goal, reaching out a strong, wiry arm to help Harry up. Even in the midst of his pain, Harry catalogues the adorable way Tomlinson sticks his tongue between his teeth when he laughs. As Tomlinson pulls Harry to his feet, Harry tries to suppress a startled wince of pain; he can feel a long scrape blooming down his side from where he’d hit the ground. But Tomlinson stops laughing abruptly to scan down Harry’s body with a practiced, clinical sort of concern.

“Are you checking me out?” Harry asks breathlessly, and then snaps his jaw shut. _Shit_. He’s clearly more shaken by that fall than he thought, if his brain-to-mouth filter has become this ineffective. Tomlinson must agree, because his slight frown only deepens, his eyes turning a dizzyingly intent shade of blue, as he assesses Harry’s appearance.

“You look like you’ve been through the wars, Styles,” he teases, pulling a tuft of grass from Harry’s hair with a tiny, sweet smile. Harry feels himself go shivery at the near-contact of Tomlinson’s hand, small but callused from football, and he can’t help but sway a little closer to chase the warmth of it. Can’t help but imagine how those hands would feel sliding down his body, slipping into his football shorts...

Tomlinson must take Harry’s dazed fantasizing for genuine unsteadiness, because he clamps his hands down on Harry’s shoulders, thankfully breaking Harry’s train of thought before it gets even more explicit.

“Why don’t you take a break,” Tomlinson offers kindly, before physically rotating Harry around toward the bench.

And Harry sees all his dreams of spectacular shower sex crumbling before his eyes.

“Oh no! I’m fine!” he insists, beaming down at Tomlinson with his infamously ingenuous grin, the one that earned him a cover shoot for _Vanity Fair_. But what works for Annie Leibovitz clearly does not work for Louis Tomlinson, because Tomlinson just rolls his eyes at Harry’s expression and insists in a steely tone: “Harry. Go sit down.”

Harry’s not sure if it’s his first name in Tomlinson’s mouth that does it, or the casualness with which he orders Harry around, but regardless, the words sizzle straight down his spine and into his dick. Harry gulps and darts off before Tomlinson has a chance to notice that he’s half-hard in his uncomfortably revealing football shorts, and then proceeds to mope on the bench for the rest of the match, overcome by a dizzying mix of arousal and despair.

Now that he knows what Louis Tomlinson’s arse looks like from close up, he’s not sure the gifs are going to cut it any more.

“Y’all right, Hazza?” Niall asks at one point, jogging over to drink some water and check his knee wrap. Harry can only wheeze miserably at him, and Niall cackles before bringing Harry into a brisk, one-armed hug.

“Cheer up, he’s been watching you, too,” Niall murmurs into his ear, before straightening up and giving Harry an encouraging grin. Harry doesn’t even bother feigning ignorance at who Niall means; it’s not like he has much pride left, anyway.  
“Probably just checking I haven’t brained myself with a shin guard,” Harry moans, unable to bear looking over, and equally unable to stop himself. Tomlinson is definitely staring back at them, taking in Niall and Harry’s conversation with bright, curious eyes. Harry groans again, and Niall laughs all the way to the other end of the pitch.

Harry is convinced that nothing could get worse, until Tomlinson himself appears at Harry’s side and settles down on the bench next to him.

“Subbed myself out so I can keep a better eye on this mess,” Tomlinson says conversationally, gesturing at the somewhat chaotic mixture of professional footballers and amateurs who are swarming around the pitch. Harry mumbles a response, trying to ignore the way Tomlinson’s thigh is pressed casually next to his.

“Oh, sorry, guess we haven’t really been introduced. Bit weird, innit, when everybody already knows everybody else’s name?” Tomlinson tries again to make conversation, tilting his head adorably and grinning at Harry with a practiced sort of charm. Harry is relieved to find that it puts him back on familiar ground. He’s used to charming; _charming_ he can do.

“Harry Styles,” he says in his best Hollywood voice. “Pleasure to meet you, Tomlinson.”

“Likewise,” Tomlinson says in an equally artificial drawl, before his mouth quirks up into a smirk. “And it’s Louis, you weirdo, d’you think we’re at Eton?”

Harry lets out a bark of laughter at that, and so it takes him several seconds to realize that he’s just been invited to call _Louis Tomlinson_ by his first name. Somewhere, his fifteen-year-old self is pissing his pants. Honestly, his current self still might.

“Sure, but like, _really_?” Harry asks stupidly. Tomlinson gives him a funny look, like he’s trying desperately not to start laughing.

“Louis,” Harry tries out the syllables. “Loueh. Lou-eeee,” he continues, blinking at Tomlinson skeptically. “Sounds weird,” is what he finally concludes.

“Well of course it sounds weird when you say it like that, _Harreh_ ,” Tomlinson huffs, but he’s giving Harry another lopsided smile, and Harry reckons he could get used to “Louis” after all.

It’s quiet for a moment after that, as Louis turns to focus on the match in progress, periodically scribbling something incomprehensible down on his clipboard. Every so often, he shoots Harry these darting, curious glances from under his fringe that Harry returns just as intently. Finally something inside Louis must snap.

“That was possibly the worst keeping I’ve ever seen,” Louis blurts out, before clamping his mouth shut with wide eyes. Harry can feel his own mouth turning down into a pout.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. _Farewell forever, shower sex._

“Hey, no, I just meant...” Louis fiddles uncomfortably with the edge of his beanie, tucking his fringe up into it before tugging the same strands of hair back out. “It was really...cool that you tried it anyway.” Harry blinks as he watches a slight flush dust across Louis’ cheeks. Louis refuses to catch his eye, and Harry isn’t entirely sure what it means.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, and he can only hope that his voice doesn’t sound as breathless as he feels.

“I mean, don’t go and quit your day job, Popstar,” Louis says, his voice shifting abruptly into its familiar, easy tone. And when he lifts his head back up, he’s got that light in his eyes that Harry is swiftly coming to associate with being teased. He’s finding that he _really_ doesn’t mind it.

“Maybe leave goalkeeping to someone who can actually stay on his feet for more than ten seconds at a time,” Louis continues, still grinning as he kicks the sole of Harry’s shoe.

“ _Hey_ ,” Harry warns, but he can feel his smile growing to match Louis’. They both stare at each other for a beat, smiling stupidly, until Louis startles Harry with a peal of laughter. He tries to clap his hands to his mouth, but it’s too late to smother the sound. And something about the sight of Louis Tomlinson, hunching forward and fucking _cackling_ into his fingers, sends Harry off too, until they’re both clinging to each other and giggling helplessly.

“I’m sorry, it’s just...your _face_ when you got hit with that ball. You looked so _offended_!” Louis gasps, one arm holding Harry tight to his side like they’ve been friends for years.

“I really didn’t think it’d be that hard!” Harry recovers enough to shoot Louis a cheeky smile, burrowing happily into his hold. “All my pals at Liverpool told me you were losing your touch. Thought I could take you.” He bares his teeth in what he’s certain is a very intimidating growl.

“Oi!” Louis squawks, digging his fingers into Harry’s side, making Harry squeal and try to squirm out of Louis’ arms.

“Say ‘we’ll never die’ and I’ll stop,” Louis announces, tickling Harry even more intently. Harry can barely breathe from laughing, but he manages to catch his breath enough to warble out “You’ll never walk alone,” Liverpool’s anthem, instead. Louis snorts and releases his hold anyway, shaking his head fondly.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this treatment. I’d hoped that after goal number five, you’d learned your lesson, young Harold,” Louis grumbles, booping him sternly on the nose. Harry tries and fails not to be hopelessly endeared.

Soon enough the match ends, and the other players stream off the pitch, laughing and shoving at each other. Matt Smith is talking very quickly and very earnestly to Rio Ferdinand, Zayn Malik is taunting Man United defender Liam Payne by holding a football just out of his reach, and Niall has somehow convinced Steven Gerrard to give him a piggy-back ride.

“Alright, well done today,” Louis shouts, launching into a debrief of the match that Harry mostly ignores in favor of watching the way his eyes light up when he talks football strategy, and the subtle, almost imperceptible way he draws out the celebrity players, who all seem mildly shellshocked after their first practice. By the end of the speech, half the men on the pitch are looking at Louis with a dazed sort of adoration, and Harry can’t say he blames them one bit.

Louis dismisses them for the day, and Harry is still so deep under Louis’ spell that he almost doesn’t notice the way his whole body protests at standing up. But Louis must notice, because his eyes dart over to Harry immediately, giving him another one of those frowning once-overs.

“C’mere Styles,” Louis says quietly, a little crease still evident between his eyebrows. Before Harry has a chance to question him or refuse, Louis is rucking up Harry’s jersey, pressing gentle, firm fingers to his sides. Harry forgets to breathe for a solid ten seconds. His fantasy of what it’d feel like to have Louis Tomlinson’s hands on him don’t have _anything_ on the real deal.

 _Is this when we kiss?_ Harry thinks stupidly. He bites his lip, searching Louis’ face for some clue about how to proceed, and as if sensing Harry’s train of thought, Louis’ head shoots up. He seems to take in the full situation for the first time: the way he’s basically started undressing Harry right there on the pitch, and the way that Harry is rapidly unraveling because of it.

Louis snatches his hands away, his eyes wide and his face going an alarming shade of red, and it seems to take him a few moments to recover.

“I’m sorry,” is what Louis finally blurts out. At first Harry thinks it’s a rejection -- a way of dealing with Harry’s unsubtle attraction to him -- but then Harry realizes that Louis actually does look sorry. It’s an expression Harry has never seen on him before, in all his somewhat obsessive years as a fan. But now Louis is biting his lip and looking up shyly from under his fringe, and Harry wants to kiss him so badly he’s almost dizzy with it.

“When I was teasing you, I didn’t realize you were hurt,” Louis continues, and he looks so genuinely contrite that Harry can’t help but burst into laughter. Louis blinks at him, clearly thrown off by Harry’s reaction, and his frowny pout only makes Harry laugh harder.

“I was the one who made you do it,” Louis barrels on, apparently determined to make Harry understand the depths of Louis’ culpability. “It was obvious you weren’t prepared, but I thought it would be a laugh, and-- I mean, in my defense, I didn’t realize you’d be quite _that bad_ \--”

“Louis,” Harry laughs, putting a palm over his mouth to shut him up. Louis stills instantly, his eyes going wide. Harry can feel a puff of Louis’ warm, shocked breath against his hand. Harry blinks and snatches his hand away, and then has to spend a good twenty seconds busying himself with the hem of his jersey before he can meet Louis’ eyes again.  
“It’s really not a big deal,” Harry mumbles, trying to force away the blush on his face. “I volunteered, remember? And it’s all just scrapes and scratches, nothing life-threatening.”

“Why _did_ you volunteer for this?” Louis is giving Harry an open, curious look, like he’s genuinely interested to know Harry’s answer. And that’s actually quite rare in Harry’s line of work, which is perhaps what makes him flush and stutter out a stupid answer.

“Well I just...really love football,” Harry mumbles, ducking his head. It does have the virtue of being half-true. Harry wisely omits all mention of shower sex from the public narrative.

For now.

Louis gives him a small smile, like he doesn’t find Harry’s answer stupid at all. “Can’t argue with that. But be sure to ice those bruises, yeah? And don’t forget antiseptic cream for the cuts.”

He sounds oddly insistent about it, his blue eyes crinkling softly at the edges, and something about the moment is inexplicably intimate, just the two of them on an emptying pitch, regarding each other with such quiet warmth. It’s not a feeling Harry expects from someone he’s only met that day. But his battered body and ego already feel more soothed, just from these few quiet moments spent alone with Louis, and so Harry can’t really be arsed to care about the implausibility of it all.

“You’re very bossy,” is what Harry comments instead, and it actually surprises Louis into a laugh.

“And you’re very stubborn,” Louis retorts lightly. “How long would you’ve stayed in that goal, if I hadn’t pulled you out?”

“Probably forever,” Harry groans, wincing at the memory. “You would’ve done the same, though.” In a 2013 match against Arsenal, Louis had actually gotten into a shouting match with a medic who was trying to coax him off the pitch. The referee had to threaten him with a yellow card before he agreed to limp off. Harry imagines that Louis would doggedly keep playing with a broken leg, if it ever came to that.

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Louis agrees, the “duh” implied by his tone. He’s staring at Harry like he’s not sure what point Harry is trying to make, and Harry remembers what Louis had said earlier: he’d been impressed that Harry had stupidly rushed headlong into goalkeeping. Harry mulls over the idea that Louis -- who is himself strong-willed and just a bit reckless -- might actually _like_ that kind of thing.

Which is great news for Harry’s shower sex prospects (gone but not forgotten). After all, Louis is completely right about him: Harry may not have balance, or coordination, or particularly developed muscles, but _sheer stubbornness_ he has in spades.

And before, when Louis Tomlinson had just been Harry’s smoking hot teenage crush, Harry’d been desperate to impress him. Now, when Harry knows that Louis Tomlinson is warm-eyed, and funny, and a little bit goofier than the perfectly controlled version of himself who appears on the pitch, Harry wants to impress him more than _breathing_. Even if it means a few bruises here and there. Harry is newly determined.

“Just try to stay out of trouble tomorrow, yeah?” Louis is still regarding Harry with slight concern, hands fidgeting as though he’s fighting the urge to reach out and smooth the wrinkles out of Harry’s clothing.

Harry gives Louis his most innocently dimpled grin in return.

***

Day 2 of “Operation: Stubborn and Masculine” is off to a lackluster start. It doesn’t help that Harry keeps calling it “Operation: S&M” in his head, and then starts giggling madly at his own silent jokes. Matt Smith has already started sidling around him like Harry might snap at any moment, which is a bit _rich_ , Harry thinks with indignation, coming from _him_.

At one point during their warm-up, Harry also gets so distracted by Louis stretching that he kicks a hole into one of the practice cones, and has to buy Jon Stewart’s silence with a desperate, half-whispered video message to his children.

And it really only gets worse from there. Louis assigns Harry to a defensive position with an encouraging little nod. But the ball stays at the other side of the pitch for so long that Harry gets bored and wanders over to harass Zayn Malik, who’s (thankfully) been put in goal in his place. The two of them are too busy swapping horror stories about Nick Jonas’ house parties to notice the ball until it bounces right past Harry’s feet.

“Oi!” Louis shouts from halfway across the pitch, waving his arms in a comical display of indignation. “This isn’t your fucking tea-time! Get it together, Malik!”

Zayn opens his mouth in silent outrage, pointing weakly to Harry by his side, but Louis just gives them both a narrow-eyed glare and turns back to the game.

“Wanker,” Zayn mutters under his breath. “I fucking hate football.”

“Why’re you here then?” Harry asks curiously, keeping one eye on the ball that’s once again migrated away from the two of them.

“Lou asked,” Zayn answers with a shrug, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Made a big show over how it’s for charity, and then when I still held out, he threatened to tell my mum about the time we ran her car into a fence and claimed it was a rabid deer. I really had no choice, see.”

He smiles at Harry’s look of confusion.

“We went to school together before he got recruited to the Academy, so we’ve been friends for ages. Small world, right? Anyway, you haven’t known Louis very long, but you’ll soon learn that if he wants something bad enough, he usually gets it.”

“Yeah,” Harry answers a little breathlessly, and tries to ignore the multitude of scenarios that Zayn’s words conjure in his mind. Instead, he forces himself to turn and watch the progress of the match. Louis has the ball; he’s miles away from any other players, soaring down the pitch like his feet aren’t even touching ground. He practically floats around an opposing defender, and then the ball is flying into the net like it’s an extension of his body, like just by touching it, Louis has imbued it with some of his own grace.

“So? Why’re you here?” Zayn asks, but Harry can barely hear him through the rush of blood in his own ears -- isn’t really paying attention to anything but the way Louis’ bark of laughter carries across the pitch as he pulls Liam Payne into a joyful hug.

“Hm?” Harry asks distantly, and misses the amused glance that Zayn shoots him.

“Never mind,” Zayn snickers.

***

Louis knows he’s supposed to be focusing on all the players equally -- assessing their strengths and taking mental notes about the feedback he’ll need to provide them at the end of practice -- but he can’t help that Harry is being _really fucking distracting_ at the other end of the pitch. He seems to have roped Zayn into some sort of dance routine, and if Louis didn’t _already suspect_ that Harry is a curly-headed demon capable of bringing about the End Times, the sight of Zayn Malik very seriously practicing hip thrusts under his encouraging tutelage would be all the proof Louis needed.

Before Louis realizes it, he’s completely abandoned his own position to jog back toward their goal.

“OK, try it again, but looser in the knees this time,” Harry is saying as Louis approaches.

“I thought I was the one giving orders around here,” he teases, and watches with interest as Harry’s head whips around to stare at him with wide eyes, a flush creeping up the back of his neck. But Harry isn’t so easily rattled.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m a _diva_.” Harry punctuates this statement with a little pirouette. “I don’t take orders.” He grins over at Louis, eyes sparkling. God, Louis wants to kiss him so _badly_.

“Still, I think you’ll find you’re playing the wrong sport over here, love,” Louis retorts, and he can’t help the way his voice has turned fond.

“Defending is _boring_.” Harry groans, even as his mouth turns up cheekily at the edges.

“It’s all boring,” Zayn mumbles, and Louis tries not to laugh at the pair of them.

“ _Singers_. So bloody spoiled,” Louis sighs in mock-exasperation. “What’ll you ask for next, no brown M &Ms in the locker rooms?”

Louis isn’t sure exactly what it is about Harry -- maybe it’s the soft swell of his lips, currently popping open in indignation -- that turns Louis a little reckless and a _lot_ thoughtless, but before he can think better of it, Louis is directing a piercing whistle at the other players on the pitch.

“All right, you lot,” he shouts, pausing to smirk at Harry. “Let’s take a break to do some shooting drills. Zayn will stay in goal, and Harry will defend. Apparently _some_ people are too famous to be bored.” When Louis turns back to Harry and Zayn, Zayn is glaring daggers at him, whereas Harry looks moderately horrified.

“Wait no, ‘m sorry, I was joking. Don’t disrupt the whole practice--” Harry insists, wide-eyed like the thought causes him genuine distress. He’s gone all red-faced and squirmy, scrunching his toes inward and giving Louis the most beautifully imploring look. And if Louis were a nice person, he’d stop teasing Harry immediately, and he’d rush to reassure Harry that he’s doesn’t mean it, he’s just an awkward idiot who thinks “taking jokes too far” is a reasonable flirting method.

But alas, Louis is _not_ a nice person, and “going too far” happens to be his siren song. So what he does instead is grin a little evilly at Harry and say in a low voice: “See, you’ve already forgotten that you don’t get a say. _I’m_ the one who gives the orders.”

“ _Fuck sake_ ,” Louis thinks he hears Zayn hiss next to them, but he can’t be sure, because the bulk of his attention has narrowed down to Harry and Harry only. To Harry’s sharp intake of breath; to the look of his pupils, dark and blown out; to his hands clenched tightly at his sides. And, like, Louis hadn’t meant it _quite_ as filthily as it came out, but Harry is staring at him a little desperately, licking his lips with a slow, absent-minded swirl of his tongue, and now all Louis can think about is all the different sounds he would draw out of that mouth if given half-a-chance; how he’d tease Harry until he begged.

“Right.” Louis masks his shaking voice with an awkward cough. “Um. Drills. Very important. _Urgent_ , even. That we do some shooting drills. Right now!”

Harry trips over air as he makes his stumbling way to his new position on the pitch, and Louis might be so lust-addled that he can barely see straight, but he’s not actually _cruel_. There’s no way Harry is prepared for an entire football team to come after him; he’ll just end up with more bruises, and it won’t actually help anyone practice. Louis may not be acting professionally, but it shouldn’t be Harry who has to pay for it.

“Harry, wait--” Louis calls him back. “I changed my mind, I’d actually like to see how well Zayn and Liam work together first. D’you mind sitting with me and taking down some notes?”

Harry’s face is still a little flushed, but the suspicious look he gives Louis is blessedly lucid.

“I’m _not_ spoiled,” he states firmly, mouth turning down at the corners. “I promise I’ll take it seriously.”

“No, hey, I didn’t mean it,” Louis says promptly, miraculously finding hidden reserves of niceness once Harry’s distress has stopped being cute. “I promise I was just teasing, love, come on.”

Without thinking -- probably still acting off the imagined closeness that Louis’ fantasies had projected -- Louis reaches a hand out for Harry, but Harry fits himself against Louis’ side just as matter-of-factly. It’s only when they’re back at the bench and Louis catches the combined raised eyebrows of Liam, Zayn, _and_ Niall that he even thinks to question it. He wonders briefly if it’s weird for them to be as comfortable with each other as they already are, but Harry has started cheerfully drawing pictures of dicks all over Louis’ playbook, and Louis suddenly can’t bring himself to care.

***

Louis should’ve known he wouldn’t get away scot free, though. He’s putting away some of the practice cones in a supply cupboard when he hears a pointed throat-clear behind him. He wonders idly which one of the boys got the short straw.  
“What the hell was that, Lou?”

Zayn. Of course. Louis turns to regard him with an innocent look.

“What?” Louis asks. Zayn glares at him until Louis shrugs and adds: “Just a bit of banter.”

“The fuck it was,” Zayn snorts. “That was straight-up _foreplay_ , happening right in front of me. Hell, you were turning _me_ on, and I haven’t found you attractive since that awful haircut in Year Ten.”

Louis makes a face at him. Zayn makes a face back.

“Look, can you two please just fuck it out or summat? So we can all go back to playing football without having to wade through oceans of your sexual tension?”

Louis opens his mouth to comment on _Zayn_ , of all people, begging to play football, but the half-formed joke leaves him with a whoosh of breath. He tilts forward to bang his forehead on the wall instead. Twice. What the hell is he even doing? This match is for charity. For _kids_. It’s not fair to them for Louis to be so unfocused. It’s _really_ not fair that whenever Harry gets close, Louis’ skin starts to buzz, and his mind reels, and his world narrows. Louis knows that in reality, the world is much larger than Harry Styles’ green eyes and too-loud laughter. He just needs to find a way to remember it.

For a few more days, at least.

***

On Day 3 of training, Harry bounds directly over to where Louis is having a mumbled, logistics-filled conversation with Niall. Louis gives him a somewhat distracted smile and immediately sends him off to rescue Rio Ferdinand from several members of the press, all of whom are loudly interrogating him about what this charity match means for his retirement plans.

Admittedly, Ferdinand does look a bit put-upon, but Harry still feels thrown off by the way Louis had dispatched him so quickly. They’d been getting on so well, Harry thought. But now that he’s reflecting back on yesterday, running through their interactions for any clue to Louis’ rapidly cooled behavior, he has to admit to himself that Day 2 of his Seduction Plan had some flaws. Sure, Louis’d done a bang-up job of seducing _Harry_ \-- he still can’t help but shiver at that memory -- but Harry worries that he hasn’t been nearly so successful at the reverse. Instead of impressing Louis with his determination, as he’d intended, he’d gotten so caught up in their banter that he’d acted much closer to the self-indulgent celebrity Louis had accused him of being.

Maybe that’s why Louis is sending him away now to help with press. Maybe that’s why, despite reassuring Harry that he’d only been teasing, Louis had barely let Harry back onto the pitch yesterday, instead keeping Harry practically glued to his side for the rest of practice. At the time, the opportunity to stay close to Louis had made a bubble of excitement grow in Harry’s chest, but now Harry’s wondering if he’s read the whole thing wrong.

At least Harry will have a chance today to correct whatever misconceptions Louis might have of him.

When they start their practice, Harry makes sure he’s polite and humble to a fault, immediately passing to another teammate the moment he has the ball.

He feels Louis’ eyes on him from the sidelines, and while he’s careful not to look over, Harry can’t help grin to himself as Liam passes him the ball, and he swivels around to pass it straight to Rio Ferdinand behind him. He’s so focused on lining the ball up exactly right to make it back to Ferdinand that he doesn’t notice the body barreling toward him until something hard smashes against his knee. He’s more surprised than anything, but it destabilizes him enough that he topples over onto the ground.

“Ow,” Harry mumbles, cradling his throbbing knee, and then Niall’s shocked, pale face looms into view above him.

“Shit, Haz, why weren’t you running!” Niall squeaks, dropping down beside Harry to flutter his hands anxiously at him. “Any idiot knows not to just _stand there_ ; you weren’t supposed to _be there_!”

“I was being a team-player, thank you Niall,” Harry grits out, determined to be stoic and accommodating about the intense pain that’s radiating out from his leg, rather than whiny or entitled. _Operation S &M_, Harry reminds himself, and it’s a testament to how much his knee really fucking _hurts_ that the name no longer makes him crack a smile.

And then another body is shoving Niall to the side, and Louis’ hands are gently pulling his own away from his knee to let the medic check the injury. Harry can’t help but hiss with pain at the prodding he’s receiving, and Louis’ hands tighten around his own.

“What the hell were you thinking, Horan?” Louis growls, and his normally bright blue eyes are shockingly cold when he glares up at Niall, who’s still hovering over them both. Even Niall looks a little taken aback, and Harry is distantly glad not to be the one Louis is yelling at.

“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” Niall repeats weakly, looking miserably down at them. “Harry, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s OK, it was an accident,” Harry rushes to reassure Niall, as the medic carefully flexes his knee. Harry _had_ been standing around with the ball at his feet, which in retrospect, might not have been so wise. He has a sinking feeling that Niall might not be the one at fault here.

But:

“It’s _not_ OK,” Louis cuts in, snapping his head back down to glare at Harry, his eyes flashing dangerously. It would be alarming if not for way Louis is also running his thumb soothingly along the back of Harry’s hands, still clutched between his own. Even through the pain, Louis’ touch sends butterflies fluttering through Harry’s stomach. “Niall was being careless, and you could’ve been really hurt.”

“I wasn’t though, right?” Harry asks the medic hopefully, who deems him a bit battered, but otherwise fit to continue.

But again:

“Actually,” Louis interrupts loudly. “Olly Murs hasn’t had a chance to play today, and I want to see how well he handles Niall.” The baleful look he sends Niall’s way might be a product of Harry’s imagination, but the protective arm he wraps around Harry’s waist definitely isn’t.

“C’mon, Hazza.”

And so they’re back on the bench again.

***

Louis knows he’s overdoing it. He knew it the moment he’d barreled onto the pitch, intent on reaching Harry over an injury that he’s played enough football in his lifetime to immediately diagnose as minor. He knew it the moment he’d seen Niall’s wounded, confused look at Louis’ unexpectedly furious tone. And he also knows it now, by the exasperated sighs that Harry is heaving as Louis fusses over him.

“Just drink the water, Haz,” Louis snaps, equal parts concerned and annoyed, shoving a water bottle into Harry’s reluctant hands.

“God, you’d think I _died_ or something,” Harry grumbles, popping the bottle open with resentful little twists of his wrist.

“Don’t be stupid, dead people don’t need to hydrate,” Louis shoots back, and then sneaks an ice pack against Harry’s knee while he’s distracted by the water. Harry makes a high-pitched noise at the unexpected cold, shooting up in his seat, before glaring down at Louis’ hand.

“I can do that myself,” Harry informs him, but Louis can tell by his tone that Harry’s already given up the fight.

“Course you can,” Louis sniffs, and doesn’t move his hand away, instead reaching up to scratch his other hand through Harry’s curls. There’s a small pause, where Louis keeps up his gentle motions and Harry stays stiff and awkward, valiantly resisting the cuddle. Until finally Harry gives a little sigh and slumps over to rest his head against Louis’ shoulder.

“Thanks for the ice,” Harry mumbles tiredly. “Feels really fucking good.”

“I know, love,” Louis soothes.

***

Practice is wrapping up -- _not that Harry got to do much_ , a small, grumpy voice takes care to remind him -- and Harry is forced to detach himself from Louis to hobble back to the block of hotel rooms reserved for the team.  
“You sure your knee’s all right?” Louis asks before they separate, inspecting it carefully for swelling.

“It’s really not that bad,” Harry tells him. He’s not actually lying -- it’s basically a bad bruise, and the ice has already helped -- but even if his leg had been about to fall off, he’d probably keep quiet about it, just to ease the tension he can see gathering between Louis’ eyebrows. “I mean,” Harry jokes, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve had worse than this on tour.”

“What d’you mean by that?” Louis asks in a sharp voice, gaze rocketing up from Harry’s knee to his face. “How much worse?”

Harry smiles a little lazily, pleased that Louis has given him an opening to tell his best touring injury stories. He thinks they make him sound dashing and manly. Especially after his series of utter failures in the football department, Harry reckons he could do with Louis thinking he’s a bit dashing and manly.

“Oh, well.” Harry says, trying not to preen too obviously. “We’ve had problems with trapdoors, a wiring malfunction that nearly got me set on fire, some wonky cables on the set of a music video...Not to mention people throw things onto the stage, trying to trip you up. So yeah, I’ve had my share of sprained ankles and all that,” he finishes with a modest wave of his arm.

He sneaks a glance at Louis’ reaction, but to Harry’s surprise and mild discomfort, Louis simply looks _horrified_. Harry blinks at him for a moment before trying to rescue the situation.

“Nothing compared to what _you’ve_ endured, I’m sure,” he teases. But Louis doesn’t take the bait; instead, Harry’s words merely seem to make him frown harder.

“Well, yeah. But I’m a _football player_.” Louis fixes Harry with an exasperated look, as if Harry were a dim child. “You’re a _singer_. It’s not exactly the same as a contact sport, is it?”

Now Harry is frowning as well. He doesn’t particularly enjoy being seen as delicate, especially by the man he’s currently fantasizing about shagging six ways to Sunday. He also doesn’t particularly enjoy the new light this throws on their previous interactions: Louis forcing him to sit on the bench, Louis worrying over Harry’s cuts, Louis’ arms around him.

Harry realizes with an unhappy jolt that there’s actually a worse fate than Louis Tomlinson thinking Harry’s too clumsy for football, or too spoiled for football, and that’s Louis Tomlinson thinking Harry’s too _fragile_ for it.

Well. Harry has two more days of training to prove him wrong.

***

On Day 4, Louis makes Harry play as a forward with him, because “apparently you need babysitting, Popstar.” He says it with a teasing glimmer in his eye, but Harry still pouts all the way to the pitch, annoyed that Louis hasn’t yet noticed his Extremely Tough Attitude.

Harry grits his teeth, watches as Steven Gerrard dribble the ball closer to him, and decides that drastic measures must be taken. Throwing all caution to the wind, Harry takes off toward Gerrard, enjoying the way his eyes widen in dismay when he sees Harry coming. Harry imagines he must look quite intimidating like this.

He barrels straight into Gerrard, only realizing too late that he hadn’t given much thought to stopping, and ends up ricocheting embarrassingly off of Gerrard’s body to land on his own arse. The football bounces jauntily out-of-bounds.

“What the hell was that, Harry!?” Louis runs up to them both, panting with the exertion, and also possibly shock. His face certainly looks red enough.

“You just tried to tackle Steven Gerrard,” Louis wheezes, definitely sounding a bit stunned.

“Yeah...” Harry says. He’s still on the ground, but Harry decides he doesn’t mind it down here. The grass is very nice, and it’s also possible his spine will collapse if he tries to stand.

“Steven Gerrard! The best midfielder in the world!” Louis is waving his hands around now, like he needs to resort to interpretive dance to convey the strength of his feelings.

“Yeah...” Harry repeats, grinning sunnily up at Louis. This had been a _brilliant_ idea.

“Steven Gerrard. Who’s on your side.”

Harry’s smile drops off his face instantly. Even Gerrard, still hovering over Louis’ shoulder, winces in sympathy.

“Oh.”

Harry spends the remainder of Day 4 on the bench.

***

On Day 5, every player is giving Harry a wide berth, except for, surprisingly, Liam Payne.

“Lou wants me to work with you one-on-one today,” Liam confides to Harry cheerfully. “He said he thought with a little work, you could be really good!”

“Really?” Harry can’t help but beam at the praise. “He said that about me?”

“Um,” Liam’s warm smile falters a bit, and his eyes dart around like he’s looking for a way out. “Well. His exact words were more like ‘don’t let that idiot hurt himself again,’ but I’m sure he _meant_ the other thing. In his heart.”

“Oh. Sure.” Harry visibly droops.

“Lou’s compliments are sometimes...very subtle,” Liam rushes to reassure him. “C’mon, let’s work on your passing.”

After an hour of effort, Harry has to admit that he is getting better, thanks in part to Liam’s patient tutelage, and his tireless fetching of balls that Harry sends astray. Harry’s feeling confident enough that when Louis walks over to check on them, he announces: “Lou, watch!” and boots the ball as hard as he can toward Liam. And then watches in horror as it sails past a surprised Liam to slam directly into Matt Smith’s head. Who crumples instantly to the ground.

“Harry,” Louis whispers hoarsely. “I think you’ve just murdered Doctor Who.”

“I didn’t!” Harry feels himself starting to panic. “I mean, he can just regenerate, can’t he?”

Louis and Liam both stare at him for a long, deeply judgmental beat.

“Harry,” Louis repeats, rubbing the crease between his eyebrows.

“Bench?” Harry asks, already shuffling off in defeat.

“ _Please_.”

Louis is a truly legendary football captain, Harry realizes now, because he manages to wait until his injured teammate has completely cleared the pitch before he loses all control and collapses onto the ground in fits of helpless laughter.

***

They get a day of rest between practice and the actual match. Louis has about ten million things he’s meant to be doing, from promotional interviews, to greeting high-level guests, to putting out several minor organizational fires (and one _actual_ fire. Bloody caterers). So Louis is sitting in his hotel room, surrounded by more paperwork than he’s ever seen in his _life_ , Niall sprawled out on the bed beside him. Whatever Niall is saying about a collapsing victor’s podium is doubtless very important, but Louis is barely listening. Because _Harry_ is somewhere in this very hotel. Quirky, lovely Harry with his ineffectual hair ties and the clever glint in his eyes when he’s thought of a joke, and the wholehearted way he flings himself into things he’s utterly hopeless at. Harry had worked harder this week than most of the professionals he’s seen, constantly stumbling and gasping for breath until he senses Louis watching, and then he never fails to straighten up and send a challenging smirk his way.

“...and this is our plan for an alien invasion, and --” Niall waves a piece of paper in front of Louis’ face, startling him back to the present.

“OK. Alien invasion. Yes,” Louis repeats firmly, swiping a hand across his fringe and fixing Niall with his best Attentive Look.

“ _Louis_.” Niall drops the paper back onto the bed and buries his face in his hands. “I have so many regrets,” he mumbles, fixing Louis with a baleful glare from between his fingers. “Remind me never to play secret matchmaker again, _it’s not worth it_.”

“What? Who?” Louis blinks back.

“Just...go. Go away.” Niall flaps one weary hand at Louis, still covering his face with the other. “This’ll get done much faster if you’re not here.”

“You’re in my room,” Louis points out -- a very reasonable objection, in his mind. “Where’m I meant to go?”

“You’re such an idiot,” Niall sighs. He follows it up by slithering under Louis’ duvet and wrapping it around his head, like he’s trying to create a physical barrier between himself and Louis’ stupidity.

“ _Get out_.” The words are muffled, but the rage is unmistakable. So Louis goes.

***

Harry is just starting what’s shaping up to be an hours-long bathtub marathon -- soaking away all the damage that the past week has done to his poor, undeserving body -- when there’s a knock at his hotel room door. He groans, but obligingly heaves himself out of the tub and wraps a towel around his waist to answer it.

His annoyance at being interrupted clears rapidly when he sees that it’s Louis standing at his door, inexplicably barefoot and anxiously tugging at the collar of his T-shirt, the fabric stretching to reveal a hint of black ink curling along his golden collarbone. Harry gulps.

He’s staring so intently at the fiddly motion of Louis’ fingers, watching with bated breath as his collar stretches lower and lower, that it takes him several long beats to notice that Louis still hasn’t said a word. When he manages to tear his eyes upward, it’s to see Louis staring at his chest with a slightly dazed expression, a hectic flush rising high up his cheekbones.

“Er...hi,” Harry says, and if his tone has gone ever-so-slightly smug, it’s nobody’s business but his own. Louis blinks and his eyes flicker back up to Harry’s face. He must realize he’s been caught staring, because he turns even redder.

“Sorry,” Louis says breathlessly. Harry barely restrains himself from punching a fist into the air in victory. If he’d known all it’d take to render Louis Tomlinson speechless was to take his shirt off, he’d have stripped a _long_ time ago.

“You look...busy,” Louis continues. “Sorry,” he repeats with a wince, and waves his hand at the empty hallway behind him. “I’ll just--”

“No, wait!” Harry manages to get out, putting a restraining hand on Louis’ arm. He wonders if he imagines the way Louis gulps at the contact. “Not busy! Just...like...recovering, I s’pose.”

For the first time, Louis seems to take in the football-shaped bruises that pepper Harry’s torso.

“I am never letting you near a football pitch again,” Louis announces, reaching out to run slow, light fingers down an angry-looking welt on Harry’s side. Harry shivers, and tries to pretend it’s from the pain. Louis is still staring at his chest, his eyes suddenly gone a stormy shade of gray, and Harry’s mouth feels bone-dry.

“Like you could stop me,” Harry finally manages, a little strangled. Louis pulls his hands away and shoots Harry a fond look.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, and Harry decides to take that as agreement.

“C’mon,” Louis adds, brightening and pushing Harry back into his hotel room. “You’re in luck, because you’ve found yourself in the presence of the absolute _expert_ on self-indulgence. And my masterclass happens to have one more open spot.”

Louis darts toward Harry’s suitcase and immediately begins rifling through it, tossing Harry’s clothing onto the floor with such unconcern that it takes Harry several long moments to realize he might want to object.

“What--” his protest is interrupted by Louis shoving joggers and one of Harry’s softest hoodies into his arms. Harry doesn’t even remember having packed them; he wonders, not for the first time, if Louis Tomlinson is secretly a wizard.

“Lesson One: Comfortable clothes,” Louis announces, grinning up at him. There’s a brief, awkward moment where Harry unthinkingly drops his towel to change, sending Louis into a coughing fit and Harry wheeling around toward the corner like a uni student with his first roommate. When he turns back around, appropriately clothed, it’s to find Louis sprawled out on his hotel bed, intently scanning the room service menu like he’d meant to do it all along.

“Lesson Two: Abuse all hotel amenities,” Louis informs him casually, shoving the menu at Harry while not quite meeting his eyes.

They end up ordering a ridiculous combination of things -- ice cream and finger sandwiches, fish and chips with a side of jello, marmite on toast and prawn cocktail -- Louis reciting each request into the phone with a pretentious accent that sends Harry giggling into the duvet.

“They’re going to think we’re pregnant or summat,” he notes when Louis has hung up the phone, and Louis’ eyes glimmer with mischief.

“Just for that, you’re answering the door,” he announces, and Harry acquiesces with an easy shrug. At this point, he’d probably follow Louis into war if he asked, let alone to the threshold of a London hotel room.

When a hotel staff-member appears with a cart, far too well-trained to express open curiosity about the mad occupants of Room 1043, Harry puts on his best Harry Styles[TM] smile and leans into his space under the pretense of handing over a tip.

“Thanks for this, mate,” Harry tells him with a confidential wink, voice pitched low enough to sound secretive, but loud enough that he knows Louis will hear. “I know it’s a bit weird, but well. These premier athletes, they all have their own quirks in bed, don’t they?” There’s a sharp squawk from behind him, followed by the thud of someone falling off the bed and onto the floor. The waiter, meanwhile, only gulps and looks up at Harry with wide eyes.

“I’ll admit I was skeptical about the marmite at first,” Harry continues cheerfully, and lets his smile widen even more lasciviously. “But it did _not_ disappoint.”

Harry would almost feel guilty about the way the poor boy flees down the hall after that, but any lingering regrets are quickly dispelled by the sight of Louis peering over the side of the bed at him, wide-eyed and disheveled.

“Oh my god,” Louis says faintly, allowing Harry to help him back up onto the mattress. He points an accusing finger at Harry’s nose. “If tomorrow’s _Sun_ runs a story about Louis Tomlinson’s depraved culinary sexcapades, I’ll know who to blame.”

“Fair enough. Now eat your erotic marmite,” Harry says with a placid smile, and deposits a piece of toast into his outstretched hand.

“What’s Lesson Three, then?” Harry asks some time later, after they’ve demolished most of the room service. They’re both stretched out lazily on the bed, facing each other with their heads bent close enough that Harry can count the tiny freckles on Louis cheek.

“A sappy film and cuddles,” Louis returns absently, busy licking ice cream off each of his fingers in turn like a scruffy kitten. The sight is a confusing mixture of adorable, sexy, and disgusting, and Harry squirms uncomfortably on the bed as he tries to work out what makes that combination so appealing. Maybe that’s just Louis, though. A cuteness paradox.

“Cuddles, huh? Do _all_ your masterclasses require partner work?” Harry means it to be suggestive, and is instead mildly horrified by the wisp of insecurity that threads through the question. He tries to save it with an utterly absurd eyebrow waggle.

“Nah, it’s a hard lesson to handle. Only for _advanced_ students.” Louis doesn’t miss a single, innuendo-laden beat, but his eyes go a bit soft when he looks over at Harry, like Harry hasn’t fooled him at all.

“And you think I’m...advanced enough to handle it, then?” Harry returns with a cheeky grin. But there’s a peculiar intensity to the way Louis’ eyes flicker down to Harry’s lips and then back up to his eyes, like he’s genuinely considering his answer. It takes Harry a solid five seconds to realize that he hasn’t moved, paralyzed by Louis’ heavy gaze.

“I think,” Louis begins slowly, giving each word its own weight, his blue eyes holding Harry’s own and drawing him unconsciously forward, “...that you’re shaping up to be the best I’ve seen.”

Distantly, Harry realizes that he’s stopped breathing, too thoroughly occupied with the buzzing, shivery sensation that has crashed over his body like a wave, as his mind works furiously to parse the meaning of Louis’ words. _Still innuendo, or--_

Before Harry can reach a conclusion, Louis is leaning over carefully, crossing the remaining distance between them on the bed to press his mouth gently to Harry’s own. For a few excruciating seconds, neither of them moves, while Harry processes the feeling of Louis’ lips on his -- warm and soft and _devastating_ \-- and the buzzing in his mind advances to a full-on Hallelujah chorus.

Louis makes a small, helpless sound against his mouth. It breaks whatever spell Harry has found himself under, because suddenly he can’t bear to stay still for a second longer. Instead he’s hauling Louis bodily across the bed to settle on top of him, sending several room service plates clattering to the floor, while Harry’s hands slip under Louis’ t-shirt to touch -- _finally, finally_ \-- the burning, golden skin at the small of his back. And Louis is moaning and moving just as desperately against him, grinding down as his teeth find their way to the hinge of Harry’s jaw, the intent drag of his tongue sparking flares of heat in its wake. One of Louis’ hands slips into the tangles of Harry’s hair while the other is busy pressing bruises into his hip, and Harry can’t help the high, needy whine he makes at that, nor the way his body arches up to chase the sensation.

Louis pulls back with a sharp gasp, but before Harry can collect himself enough to mount a protest, Louis has already ducked back down to press kisses into the hollow of his throat.

“Harry, God, Harry,” he’s mumbling hoarsely into Harry’s skin like an incoherent mantra. And for some reason, _that’s_ what really sends Harry reeling, has him moaning and tugging at Louis’ shirt with insistent, greedy hands, begging for something he doesn’t currently have the words to express. Louis draws back to struggle out of his own shirt, and it’s like a cheesy film, the way time slows down as the fabric slides up to reveal the dip of his waist, the slight softness of his stomach, pert nipples and those sinful collarbones from earlier: a sequence that’s probably going to haunt Harry’s dreams for the rest of his life. Harry wants to touch _everything_. And then never stop.

When he finally wrenches his gaze high enough to reach Louis’ face, Louis is looking back at him with a dazed, hungry sort of awe.

“ _Fuck_ , I want--” Louis begins feelingly, pupils blown out, and Harry cuts him off with a vigorous nod. A glimmer of Louis’ old, teasing expression flashes across his face. He holds Harry’s gaze, smirking slightly, as he starts a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that makes Harry’s head spin. He keeps it up -- the movements and the smirk in equal measure -- as he leans forward, ducking down to shape words against the sensitive skin under Harry’s ear.

“You haven’t even heard what I want yet.” Louis’ voice is low and dark, the slight drag of his mouth against Harry’s skin making him whimper.

“Don’t care. Anything. For you, anything,” Harry mumbles, squirming a bit under the weight of Louis’ body, chasing friction, his cock so hard he could _cry_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis repeats, sitting up and staring at Harry incredulously. His mouth works a bit, no more words coming out, and Harry takes a moment to appreciate the sight of it, pink and wet. God, he wants to feel it, wants the soft slide of Louis’ mouth around him _yesterday_ , and since Louis still seems frozen above him, Harry can’t help another pointed wriggle and a slightly grumpy: “But it better be _something_.”

Louis lets out a startled bark of laughter at that, and he ducks back down to kiss Harry, slow and thorough like he can’t help it, before tugging off Harry’s shirt.

“I’ll do my best,” he murmurs throatily before Harry feels sharp teeth clamp down on his right nipple. _That little shit_. Harry makes a shocked, indignant noise and tries to arch away, but Louis’ hands hold him down, one at his thigh and the other sliding around his wrist, firm like the promise of something more to come.

“Don’t move,” he commands, and Harry’s eyes fly open to meet Louis’. They’re trained on his face already, a little crease between his eyebrows and an uncertain look in his eyes like he’s asking silent permission to continue.

“You really are...” Harry gasps. “...So fucking bossy.” He trails off into a moan that should leave _no doubt_ about what Harry thinks of that bossiness, and Louis’ face bursts into a grin, bright and delighted, before dipping down again to trail kisses down Harry’s stomach.

Harry shivers with the urge to chase him, to slip his hands down and twist them through the soft strands of Louis’ hair, maybe tug a little pointedly if Louis keeps up his current, teasing pace. But instead he makes himself go still -- bites his lip and keeps his hands where Louis has placed them, fingers twitching minutely from the effort.

Louis must notice the aborted movement, because he makes an overwhelmed little noise in the back of his throat and closes his eyes, resting his head briefly against Harry’s thigh. Harry feels something molten rush through his veins at that, something that’s one part smugness and two parts _ridiculously turned on_.

When Louis glances back up, his cheeks are flushed such a deep red that Harry can’t help but let the smugness win out. He catches Louis’ attention again with a small, cheeky wiggle of his fingers, and then he winks.

Louis narrows his eyes at the implicit challenge, and things go a little blurry after that.

It’s something to do with the way Louis’ strong grip on his hips and soft tongue against his skin blend together into one, indistinct sensation. Harry’s mind catches sluggishly on the feelings of _yes_ , and _Louis_ , and _please_ , helpless to make sense of anything else. Louis is pressing a kiss to his hip, Harry realizes, which must mean that he’d already taken off his pants, but the details of that maneuver now seem vague and unimportant, especially in the face of what Louis does next. Which is to put his lovely, clever, fire-hot mouth around the head of Harry’s cock and suck, swirling his tongue until Harry is gasping for breath, his eyes slipping closed and head slamming back into the pillows. Louis bobs his head down further, one of his hands letting up its pressure against Harry’s thigh to wrap around the base of his cock, the slide of his fingers slightly rough but devastatingly perfect, just as Harry’d imagined it would be days ago -- lifetimes ago.

_Yes. Louis. Please._

He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Louis is pulling off and saying, “I know baby. Come for me, yeah Hazza?” He ducks back down, something more purposeful now about the slide of his mouth, going deeper and deeper down until Harry can feel the slight flutter of Louis’ throat around him, and that’s it -- that’s the limit of what he can take -- and he’s spilling into Louis’ mouth with a cry, too overwhelmed for a warning.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Harry says when he’s caught his breath enough to look down and see Louis, still hovering between his legs, blinking sluggishly up at him with a splash of come on his chin.

“You must be _joking_ ,” is what Louis answers, surging up to kiss the breath back out of him, his hand working to get himself off as well, only needing a few quick strokes before he’s gasping into Harry’s mouth as he comes.

“Holy shit,” Louis mumbles, rolling back onto a pillow and tugging Harry along with him. Harry curls happily into Louis’ shoulder and seriously considers falling asleep.

“So did I pass the course? Relaxation 101 with Louis Tomlinson?” Harry mumbles, trailing his hand slowly down Louis’ ribs, and feels Louis’ answering huff of laughter against his fingertips.

“Did you _pass_? Jesus, Harry, you just _graduated_. Master’s, PhD, the whole lot. You’re a fuckin’ _relaxation prodigy_ , I reckon.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, sleepy and pleased. He raises his head up to take in Louis, arm thrown over his eyes, a faint shimmer of humor at the corners of his mouth. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, and his tattoos stand out vibrantly against his still-sweaty skin. He’s so beautiful Harry can hardly stand it.

“Well...you too,” Harry continues, sinking back down into the bed. “If I’m Sex Spiderman, you’re like-- Sex Iron Man.”

Louis slides his arm off his face to give Harry a baffled glance.

“Cuz...you know...they were like child prodigies. Geniuses, yeah?” Harry explains, grinning at him. _It’s a brilliant analogy, ok?_

Louis shakes his head like he can’t quite believe Harry is real.

“S’pose as long as I get to be Iron Man...” Louis finally concludes around a yawn. “Now turn off your mad brain and go to sleep,” he commands, patting Harry’s hair rather clumsily. Harry falls asleep mid-smile.

***

“Oh thank _God_ ,” is the fervent exclamation that wakes Louis up the next morning. The events of the previous day come back to him in flashes against his still-closed eyelids. After his and Harry’s nap, they’d taken a lazy shower together before snuggling back in bed to catch most of _Miss Congeniality_ on television, measuring time in light touches and more orgasms and Harry’s loud, honking laughter. They’d fallen asleep again, tangled up together in Harry’s bed, Louis nose pressed into the crown of Harry’s head and Harry’s arms tight around his own.

They’ve woken up much the same way, Louis realizes when he finally squints one eye open, except for the surprising addition of three voyeuristic best friends. He’s not sure which of them had actually spoken. It could’ve been Liam, already busying himself with tidying Harry’s room (a lost cause at this point, Louis reckons), but hiding a grin that suggests years of teasing in Louis’ future. It could’ve been Zayn, leaning against the television set and directing a knowing smirk Louis’ way. Or it could’ve been Niall, who’s currently jumping energetically onto the foot of the bed.

“Whassit?” Harry mumbles. He burrows deeper into Louis’ arms and kicks his leg out, catching Niall mid-bounce and sending him tumbling off the edge of the mattress.

“This is the thanks I get,” Niall grumbles from the floor. “Just spent the past 24 hours doing your job so you could get laid, and I don’t even get a morning cuddle out of it.”

“We are naked under this duvet, Niall,” Louis informs him drily.

“Ooh, is this _marmite?_ ” Niall crawls under the bed and emerges with a dusty piece of toast hanging out of his mouth. “Alright, you’re forgiven.”

Harry lets out another sleepy grumble, flopping over Louis’ body as though he’s trying to smother the source of the offending noises. He gently head-butts Louis’ chin until he adjusts into a more comfortable position, and then lets out a tiny, contented snore. It makes something syrupy swoop through Louis’ chest, and he turns wide eyes to Liam and Zayn.

“Is he even real?” Louis appeals to the two of them. It’s a question that has haunted Louis _throughout_ his brief acquaintance with Harry, but now, with his best mates acting as witnesses to Harry’s absurd behavior, he might finally get some answers.

“Aww,” Liam coos. “Zayn, look at Lou’s face!”

“What about my face? My face is fine,” Louis grumbles, attempting to school his expression into something normal-looking. It’s an utter lost cause. He settles instead for smoothing Harry’s curls away from his face to reveal a pillow-creased cheek and a soft downturn of his mouth, as though Harry is preemptively grumpy at having to wake up.

“Much as we’d all like nothing more than to sit here and watch you fall in love, there’s the small matter of the football match you’re scheduled to attend. If you recall,” Zayn contributes from his perch by the television. Louis flips him off.

“And there’s cold chips down here too? Get in!” comes Niall’s voice from the floor.

Yeah, it’s gonna be a good day.

***

So far, Harry’d had an excellent day. He’d woken up curled against Louis, to blue eyes crinkling at him and three unexpected voices telling him “congrats on the sex!”

“It must’ve been great,” Liam had sniffed from the corner, where he appeared to be folding a pair of Harry’s pants for him. “Judging by the state of this room.”

“Just wait’ll you hear what we did with the marmite,” Harry mumbled, still squinting against the morning sunlight, his heart rate racing at the sound of Louis’ delighted laugh.

“ _What did you do with the marmite_.” Niall’s horrified face had popped up from behind the bed.

So yeah. Ace morning, all told.

And as for the match, well. He’d always loved the rush of performing in front of a crowd, and playing football has been no different. Granted, Harry is quite good at singing and he’s bloody awful at football, but other than that, it’s basically exactly the same.

Not to mention that today, Harry hasn’t even been _that_ hopeless. After the debacles at practice, Louis had insisted that he’d found the perfect task for Harry: confuse the opposing team into making mistakes, a role he has so far played with enthusiasm.

They’re nearing the end of the first half, up by one goal and without any major mishaps, when Louis goes to take a corner kick. The rest of the team gets into position for the set-piece as they’d practiced. And Harry knows exactly where he’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to stay back, away from the swarm of players who’ll all soon be vying for control of the ball. But the thing is, he’s been having such a _good_ day.

Harry raises his eyes to the corner of the pitch, where Louis is setting up his kick. Their eyes meet, and in that split-second, Harry knows exactly what he’s going to do. And he knows from the widening of Louis’ eyes, the subtle shake of his head, that Louis knows it too.

“Harry, no,” he mouths, but Harry only grins cheerfully back.

_Harry yes!_

And after that it’s too late, because Louis is already kicking the ball, and Harry’s already flinging himself headfirst into the chaotic mass of flailing footballers. There’s a sharp _crack_ that Harry feels down to his core, and suddenly his limbs have gone loose and wobbly and everything hurts. Harry doesn’t remember falling to the ground, but he must have, because he’s lying on the grass, clutching at his arm while the sound of a whistle rings in his ears.

***

He’s dislocated his shoulder. That’s what Harry gleans through a haze of pain and tears. They take him to the hospital, where he’s given sleeping medication to loosen his muscles before the shoulder can be snapped back into place. _At least it hurts less, now_ , is the last thought Harry has before falling asleep alone in a hospital bed.

When he wakes up, he’s somehow not surprised to see Louis there, shifting in an uncomfortable hospital chair and stroking Harry’s hand. The one not currently done up in a sling.

“Come to say ‘I told you so’?” Harry asks, trying to stare Louis down, but in practice, only mustering up the energy for an awkwardly prolonged wink. He hopes it looks intimidating. Like a one-eyed pirate, maybe.

But rather than afraid for his life, Louis merely seems taken aback.

“Harry. You’re in hospital,” he starts, frowning. And then ignores Harry’s sullen “I noticed” to continue: “D’you really think I’d berate a half-conscious man in a sling?”

Harry squints his eyes further open, and realizes that he’s actually made Louis _offended_. Better and better.

“I’d deserve it,” Harry mumbles hopelessly, closing his eyes again and burrowing back into the scratchy hospital pillows, searching for some avenue of escape from this conversation. “I’ve been acting like an idiot.”

“Hey, no,” Louis says gently, resting his palm on Harry’s un-injured arm. Even through the haze of pain medication, his skin still tingles at the point of contact. Harry can feel a dopey grin start to creep across his face.

“I mean. You _are_ a solo act. Never learned to follow orders,” Louis teases.

Harry, floating on a high of drugs and Louis’ touch, answers dreamily: “Actually I’m _fantastic_ at following orders. You remember.”

Louis removes his hand sharply to have what sounds like a violent coughing fit to Harry’s left, but might also be laughter. Harry starts to giggle too, and then realizes once he’s started that he can’t actually stop. _Reign it in, Styles. It’s like you’ve never been high before._

“I was just trying to impress you,” Harry blurts out suddenly. His eyes fly open; he’s fairly certain he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Harry’s admission hangs in the air for several, excruciatingly silent seconds, and when Harry dares to look, he finds Louis staring at him with his mouth hanging open.

“ _Me?_ But you’re _Harry Styles_. You sold out Madison Square Garden in seven minutes. The Royal Family follows you on Twitter. You’ve sung with Robbie Williams. _Robbie Williams_ , Harry.”

“Yeah, but -- wait, how d’you know all that?” Harry asks curiously, and watches with fascination as a deep flush crawls up Louis’ cheeks. Harry suspects it’s significant, and he files the image away in his mind to examine later, when things aren’t quite so fuzzy.

“You jus’ think of me as this useless celebrity, though,” Harry mumbles, allowing his eyes to slip closed again. He can feel sleep tugging at his mind but he tries his best to fight it, vaguely aware that later, he’ll be grateful to have finished this conversation. “Always teasin’ me. Jus’ wanted you to notice...” Harry trails off, starting to lose his battle against the drugs.

Louis laughs incredulously, and Harry can’t help but pout a little. Until he feels a warm hand skim lightly against his cheek to tug at a strand of his hair. Harry hums and nudges his head into Louis’ hand, encouraging him to continue.

“Harry,” Louis says, and his voice has turned absurdly fond, the sound curling around Harry like steam rising from a cup of tea. “After yesterday, can you really doubt...” There’s a short pause, and then a quiet, self-deprecating sigh. “Let’s just say I don’t award sex doctorates to just _anyone_ , alright?”

Harry’s thoughts are coming too slow for him to work out what Louis means, and before he can ask, Louis lets out a sudden laugh.

“You really thought you had to be good at _football_ for me to notice you? Are you mad? Like I didn’t notice _you_ the second you stepped onto the bloody pitch.”

“Really?” Harry slurs, pleased. The feeling of Louis stroking his hair is becoming too soothing for him to resist sleep much longer.

“Couldn’t ignore you if I tried,” Louis murmurs. The words themselves sound like they’re coming from somewhere under water, but Harry can still hear the smile in Louis’ voice, clear as day.

He dreams of fingers intertwining with his and soft lips brushing against his forehead.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me [here](http://rainbowninja.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you wanna say hi!
> 
> ETA: The awesome [helloshire](http://helloshire.tumblr.com) has translated this into Russian! Everyone should go [check it out](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5398568)!


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